In Vino Veritas
by DrawMeASheep
Summary: Post Flesh and Blood. Tony and Ziva share a meal.


Disclaimer: PIIIIIIIIIIIIGS! IIIIIIIIIINNNNNNN! SPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!

Spoilers: _Flesh and Blood_.

Summary: Tony gets a gift to make up for his missed cruise.

* * *

"Did you honestly think I was going to pay for you to go on a cruise with your fraternity brothers?"

"Well…not _you_ personally." Tony realized he wasn't going to be able to get away with a straight lie; of course, it was rare that he could with Ziva, especially when she had easy access to a knife. So…always. He groped for the best explanations he could think of, "I thought, uh, maybe you'd organize a bake sale or, uh, bachelor auction…"

"Is that what your sorority sisters would do?"

"Hey, let's get one thing straight – they were not our sisters. They were each other's sisters. They were our default dates for Greek events on campus, assuming we weren't involved with, uh…" He was unable to control what that stupid annual sexual harassment lady called 'elevator eyes,' though he hoped they were less conspicuous with a table blocking access to his favorite floors. Damn her for wearing the dressed he'd picked out! And for letting him pick out her dress! And damn the restaurant for its lack of glass-topped tables! He suddenly realized that he was supposed to be completing a sentence. "Uh…"

"_Foreign_ women?"

"That's, uh, one way to, uh…" He found that he was having trouble remembering anything not related to cleavage. And since when did Ziva have cleavage? This was going to require some top-flight investigating, oh yes it was. His hand had just slipped past her wineglass when he realized this was the best plan ever conceived for losing a hand. He waited until both of his were firmly clasped on the table in front of him. "So, hey, when are you taking your citizenship test?"

"Do not change the subject."

"Look, I…you were right, okay? Is that what you want me to say? That I'm too old for spring break?" He tried to finish his wine, but his hands were blocked.

She squeezed gently, gently for her. "You did not need to say anything. I simply thought this was somehow karmic."

"Dinner instead of a vacation? Granted, we are at one of the best restaurants in the city and you did let me dress you – though not literally, which would have gone a lot further toward cheering me up than…"

"I was attempting to compliment you on your maturity, but I see that I have jumped over the gun." She was careful to keep her bracelet out of the calamari as she withdrew her hand, though he'd have sacrificed the non-kosher appetizer she'd reluctantly ordered in exchange for the continued comforting warmth. Squishy squid rings suddenly seemed less appealing, even if they were the Rhode Island style he remembered from his boarding school youth. He made a move to disguise his reach for her hand as a desire for peperoncini as she leaned to the side, looking at something that was happening behind him. "That couple just got engaged."

"This would be the place to do it," he muttered under his breath, taking a glance over his shoulder to observe reason sixty-three never to propose – woman crying in a restaurant. He wanted to run over and shake her, remind her that she'd just gotten a diamond, not a confession that Johnny Three-Piece-Suit was cheating on her with a Pilates instructor and that she should get herself checked for chlamydia. And maybe gonorrhea. _That_ would be something worth crying over. Diamond ring, not so much. He turned back to his calamari with a sigh, only to discover that Ziva was offering the mostly empty plate to the waiter. Probably for the best; he didn't need all that fried deliciousness. They still had the entrée, after all, with a fresh bottle of expertly selected matching wine. Plus she'd promised dessert and mainly-liqueur coffees. Maybe he could scale it back to regular coffee; he already felt pretty good, though he didn't think it was all due to the alcohol. He wondered if that would need a reevaluation when he heard himself ask, "You…uh, liked my dad, huh?"

She shrugged and didn't meet his eyes. "He has a certain charm. Women like to be complimented."

"Funny, because I've always had the impression that women didn't really like being lied to."

"There is a difference between lying and practiced insincerity." She moved in her seat, nudging him under the table as she crossed her legs in the opposite direction. "Sorry."

"For the kicking or the…? Hold on, let me get this straight – when he's complimentary but insincere, you like it?"

She leveled a serious stare at him. "I know what you are getting at, and it is not unfair that I hold you to a higher standard. I know you and you are capable of better, though you do not like for people to know that."

He was saved from making a meaningful reply as two giant ribeyes were delivered to the table and the waiter loitered to open the next bottle of wine. _She has expectations now?_ He found the thought wholly unappetizing, a feeling that was pushed aside by his first bite of steak. "Mmmmmm, Iffizz foh guh."

"Chew and swallow, Tony. Though I agree that it is quite good." She took another bite.

He took her second piece of advice to heart, though it would have been easier if he'd paid more attention to the first, before saying, "You should get your meat a little rarer. You miss the cowed-in flavor when you get it medium well."

"And you should have gotten the broccoli instead of the twice-baked, cheese-covered potato."

"Touché." He took a bite of said potato and discovered it was well worth ceding the nutritional high ground. The food was distracting enough to prevent any further conversation until he leaned back and tried to think of a way to inconspicuously loosen his belt without leaving the table. Why was everyone trying to make him feel better with steak? "Ungh. I'm gonna have to give it a few minutes before we start thinking about dessert."

"You did not have to eat the whole thing," Ziva replied with a roll of her eyes, patting the small box on the table beside her.

"I can't walk out with a doggy bag! It's emasculating!"

"You are joking."

"Hey, even though it's been chopped up and grilled, if you leave some of it on your plate, the cow still wins. And I'm not letting some smug Holstein get the best of Anthony DiNozzo. Junior," he added as an afterthought.

"Holsteins are dairy cows."

He ran his finger around the rim of his empty wineglass. "You meant to say 'jumped the gun.'"

"What does that have to do with cows?"

"Nothing. I just meant that when you said you 'jumped over the gun' earlier, you meant 'jumped the gun.' When you were saying that…something about me being immature, disappointment…" He suddenly felt an unexpectedly emptiness in his stomach. "So, are they bringing the dessert menu anytime soon?"

"You do not have to be mature to be a good person."

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Tony…"

"How about this – you haven't asked me what I told my dad about you yet. I mean, he knew who you were. Don't you want to know what I might have let slip about my favorite probationary ninja?"

"From the way he treated me, I can assume the word 'ninja' never came up."

"Right. But I still may have said something, uh…well, he doesn't know that much about you because he hasn't got people putting dossiers together about the people I work with or…" He stopped short as his brain caught up to his mouth. "I…" How was it possible that he'd spent the past few days complaining about his father when…and she hadn't asked him to shut up, even once. He fumbled, trying to find something to say. "I shouldn't have had that last glass of wine. Where's that dessert menu?"

"Stop."

"I just want…"

"I will not force you to talk." He wondered if there were some significance in the fact that it wouldn't be qualified as an attempt. "I have learned that it does not work well and likely does more harm than good."

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to decide if she were using a clever ruse to trick him into baring his soul or if she had sent her identical clone to dinner. Had she always had that freckle on the side of her neck, or was that where clone Ziva's umbilical cord had been attached in her test tube? He briefly considered texting McGee to find out where technological progress stood on human cloning. A trap was more probable, but she could have gotten custody of her clone as part of her Moussad severance package. "What was the first thing you said to me when we met?"

"What?"

"Just…" Wait, she probably would have trained her clone to answer questions like this. He squinted across the table in the dimly lit restaurant. She'd gotten that scar in Somalia, the little one under her nose that you could only see in a certain slant of light. She probably wouldn't have given that to her clone. In fact, that was probably definitive proof that she didn't have a clone. Which left the one option. "You're trying to trap me into talking."

"No."

He waited for her to say more, but the waiter had taken their order of tiramisu with two forks and had poured their coffee before he managed to sputter, "That's…that's it?"

"Did you want your own dessert?"

"No, I mean with…the talking. You're just giving up?"

"I am accepting that you do not want to talk instead of pushing you."

"Oh. Right." The conversation, which he supported mostly from his end, shifted to movies for the duration of dessert. He managed to pay for something on the night as he tipped the coat check girl. Ziva, surprisingly, allowed him to slip her coat over her shoulders as they waited for the elevator. "I, uh, I'm okay with a little pushing. No shoving, but…"

"Whenever you would like." They stepped to the back of the car when the doors opened, pressed close by a large party that insisted on squeezing in.

He grinned down at her. "I was thinking now but this isn't our usual elevator."

"You do know that it is possible to have serious conversations in other places, yes?"

The seven people who had crammed into the elevator with them exploded into the lobby and made a mad dash for the valet, so Tony led Ziva to one of the overstuffed couches. "Listen, I don't want to get into a competition about who has the worst dad, because there's no reason you should have any sympathy for me after what your dad did to you…"

"Tony," she interrupted, "as you said, it is not a competition. You have a difficult relationship with your father. I understand. If you would like to unload, I would just like to make sure that you know I am here. And that I will listen."

"Not something you need to remind me about. Although I do have something you seem to have forgotten." He pulled the box containing her leftover steak from under the coat he had yet to put on.

She took it from him with a smile. "That was not so bad, was it?"

"Well, I had it hidden, so…was that the trap? You convinced me you weren't trying to convince me to talk so you could trick me into carrying the doggy bag?"

"Not at all. I would like you to talk about how you are feeling if you would like to talk about it."

He was tempted to ask if she learned that in therapy, but enough of the wine had metabolized by now for his verbal filter to be firmly reseated. He turned and glanced over his shoulder. "Looks like the valet isn't busy anymore."

"Shall we go?"

"Uh, Ziva?"

"Yes?"

He tapped his finger on the box she had left on the sofa. "Not carrying it to the car."

"Fine," she huffed with a grin. "But if you ever…"

"I know." He threw his arm around her shoulders as they walked to her car. "And, uh…don't feel bad that you didn't defeat your cow."


End file.
